It is the wild wine
(not your whiskey,
nor your beer)
that sets me to singing
in the sullen afternoon.

The bottle
(heavy in my bony hand,
full of blushing ambrosia)
tilts back to feed
my gullet
swollen and red
as a fat, over-ripe leech.

O but this,
my Sermon on the Mount,
is one of dulled ecstasy
and ****** craving,
craving the touch of skin,
the ecstasy of the hunt.

Beautiful nectar,
bounty of the grove,
wellspring of violent
visions,
I drink and am drunk
on you,
elegant muse-water,
portentous deluge.

I stand on the porch
& it overlooks the road
& it is painted white.

I smoke a cigarette
with my left hand
in my pocket.

I exhale & enter
a daydream
where I am yours.

I close my eyes
& I taste your lips
& I touch your thigh.

I open my eyes
to peer into the desire
lounging on my tongue.

Silence—
It blossoms like tumors
On our lips; the face
Of the moon looks into the
Window and sniffs you;
His lips crawl up and down
Your flesh, a maddened desirous
Spider.

Country music—
It plays on the radio, a testament
To human boredom; it is a lullaby
And we sift through the static to find
It with our ears;
It fades, we keep the beat,
Then the voice croons back,
Almost asleep.

Angels—
They chant in a choir high
Above us; the noise is golden
And it pours down like honey
Dripping into our eyes;
It tastes good, we scrape it like
Sleep from tired eyelids, or
Leaves from the gutter.

Flowers—
They are blooming outside like
Tumors on our lips; they are different colors,
We follow the rainbow and then
Return to the quiet room;
We can only lie simply beneath a canopy
Of Chinese drywall that stares
Down like a lost lover.

Silence—
It blossoms as I hold
Up the mirror we have built;
It is made of sand
And crumbles in my fingers;
The tumors on our lips leap out
And crash through the red rag
Of an alcoholic day.

It doesn't take long for me
        to write a poem like it
        used to.
No, I see a stream & think
        not of rhyme or of
        rhythm--words spew
        out like blood
        and venom.
There's no secret to it, no
        golden key, it just
        comes.
It bubbles out of me.
I am a word-faucet.

says the old portly man.

He has a mustache and his face
is red like a beet and his stomach
is swollen like a tumor and his chest
is covered in coarse fur.

"Edit sober!"
says the young muscular man.

His hair is neatly combed.
His hands are calloused.
He has seen war.
He has known love.
And he will know
the barrel
of his gun.

When I meditate
listening to the
words that pop up
and glimmer in the
front of my mind
everything my eyelids
behold begins to
quiver & I can look
straight through
& see nothing

God's gray thumb
Was as heavy as a fistful
Of black steel
On the day he pressed it
Into the earth
And created a crater
And filled it with water.

He looked down at His creation
Then looked back up
At the Firmament and saw
A resemblance in the way
They both reflected that kind
Matronly face, bearded, wrinkled
Full of hope.

Then His hands were gray
On the day He blurred
The lines; the trees in
The garden stood solemn
And man and his wife
Looked on them
And got curious.

the sky is gray
over naked gray trees
all seems gray
sidewalk & building
& all is a dream
& a pretty little dream
& the mind is the dreamer
sleeping in the gray
& i am glad for it
my dream is gray
the rainy day is gray
the rain in spain is gray
the eyes of pretty ladies
are gray just look
at all of this gray
sea of dreaming
just look at the dream
it is all gray
it is all
tathagata

I.

The living creatures--
the living creatures rush forth &    
return!
They are in heat again &
they pant in their hot damp
prisons;

the windows are covered,
the wisdom of the morning is
cool against the white flesh;
brush aside sun-colored hair,
feel to touch the smooth neck,
lean in to the pale lips;
become a master of the tongue,
for the sun sets slowly unceremoniously
on youthful dreams.

The vigor of the Dog Dance--
press your souls together, contort
in the rich silken comfort, get inside
& touch the velvet throne;
the diamond mine is restless &
moves forever: there are clouds
in that golden hair, marble columns
in the rose garden.

II.

We have rested & recuperated
in our soft asylum; we have
violated & vomited in rhythms
with the serpent's palpitations;
we carry our naked babies to
the pond, peer into the rippling
sacrifice, see the shell of a bold &
beautiful reflection:
it is the moon & she dances about
our brains & she dares
us to sing.

Peek backward into golden cold
infinity:
a thousand haunted worlds,
a thousand frightened dreams
circling in the trial of the mind;
the trial has lived forever,
it beckons you to return
to it's moist cotton womb:
you must dance, you must sing,
you must howl & screech
into diamond encrusted
darkness.

when i die
i want to be
buried
not burned
certainly not
sunk i want to
be in the nice
cool ground
with the worms
at least six feet
beneath our
own six feet

The lights of passing cars dance
On the darkened ceiling—
The only light in a pitch-black room
Is periodical and flickers away
Like a monarch butterfly
On honeymoon with a new lover.

The sickly smell of lilacs hangs
In the still air—
A remnant from the incense,
A reminder of previous activities,
The scent sticking to the walls
Like cobwebs, to the ceiling like ice sickles.

The sound of the television in the other room
Intrudes through the cracked door—
It is a ghost that talks hurriedly
Of things that no one should care about;
It finds its way into my ears
Where it holes itself up like a chipmunk in hibernation.

The hours pass away like relatives or lilac bushes
At the start of the new winter—
I lie awake haunted by the television,
The rancid smell of dead flowers,
The light of busy cars,
And this horrible poem.

This poem bleeds out of my pen as though it
Had a heart, and I stabbed the heart—
As though its blue pulsing ink veins like vines
Had been cut; the ghost of the words won’t
Let me sleep, so I may as well
Stay up.

The sun peeks over the horizon like a newborn baby
Peeking out of the womb—
She spreads her rosy fingers and her rosy lips
And her grin creeps into the dark room,
I can hear the rooster crow; I can feel the moon find his way back
Into the cave.

What pale glory dwells in
the clouds, in the sky?

A thousand angels,
a thousand gleaming
trumpets!

The golden notes assail me
and fill my head with
Heaven's glee until
it is heavy and droops.

I was outside
beneath the gray sky
this morning
smoking a cigarette
and my kitten's head
poked through the space
in the rotten fence

and I sipped my glass
of morning time ***
and went on with my bad
habits, and when my kitten
walked on by, feet
padding softly on the
wet concrete, I nodded
at him imperceptibly
and he looked up at me

and I guess he understood
where I was coming from,
because he looked as though
he really knew me, really knew
in these Scorpio eyes what
I was thinking about

and then he just kept on
walking in his utter silence
until he had reached the back
door, and then he mewled
softly, as is his way,
to let me know that it was
time to come back in

and I finished my cigarette
and downed the last sip of Bacardi
and went inside
to escape my bad habits.

Say a prayer
for the little brown kids
in Syria
dressed in rags &
paying for
the crimes of
a few idiot dissidents.

This altar of teeth and ****,
crumbling into dust, into ashes
to be swept away in the sour wind
of the idiot daylight hours
in the jibber-jabber of the streets

a tribe of swans
flying forward forever in a
perfect V--
squawking against the wind,
with wings laughing
like little old ladies,
rhythmically & white
feathers falling to the
gentle earth...

black vultures the color
of 3 AM in a
pitiful wretched circle
fly over the
valley, worshipping
the dead and the bones
and the ashes.

There is a nativity scene in my backyard every morning.
I can look out the window and observe,
With tired eyes, the birth of Christ
And the treachery of Cain
And the flood of Noah
And the sacrifice of Abraham
And even Moses’ burning bush.

The sun rises above the forest every morning.
It smiles on the grass and makes it grow;
The dewdrops on the trampoline
Cast tiny rainbows on the black rubber surface;
A tiny autumn breeze sways the trees
And they dance with a mysterious genius
That man cannot know.

I can hear the music of the birds in the morning.
There are tiny red berries and honeysuckle flowers
On the trees at the edge of the woods;
There is no serpent, though,
And there is no Eve to pick them and eat them,
And there is no Adam, naked and ribless,
And there is certainly no angel swinging a flaming
Sword in my Garden of Eden.

Dead on the water
is not a paid vacation;
floating in black
stagnation, figures
treading water around
your center.

Dissolving in the
uncaring ripples of
a green and murky pond--
men lost their lives
for this place.

Buried treasure
glints in the bent
sunlight of the soundless
depths--

locked out in the winter
is not a blaze of glory.

Not even the vultures
will touch your rotten
meat, so why should I?

There are those little
odd moments when I
would catch your eyes
staring at me
from across the room,

like you knew me.
You didn't know, dear;
not then. But you would
& we both knew
it, even then, locking
eyes like circling
buzzards.

My Soul through nighted halls
did stagger to be remembered
and rejoined in hollow Void.

The limps, the shackles did echo
on shadow'd floor as fire
flickered in the lamps.

The empty sea full of Ego
it's waves did crack on temple
walls and we left it behind

to defend the fanning flames.

life is a blood-red
rust-red roadmap
of cracked paper
that soaks up suffering
like soapy water
and burns up
slowly when set
on fire

I love you
because
when I spontaneously
spout Robert Frost
you know exactly
where
to pick up with
the next line.

I love you
because
you read The Bell Jar
& felt it
in your womanly bones
before those
other girls tried
to grab my attention.

I love you
because
the studs in your
nose are like stars
between
the sun & moon
of your marble
green-flecked eyes.

I love you
because
you tell me how
you feel & don't
try to claw out
my eyes
but claw my back
instead.

I love you
because
the air in your room
is just cool enough
for love
& the light just
dim enough
for love.

I love you
because
you regard the scene
with cool intellectual
librarian eyes
& step on the tiles
with ballet fairy
feet.

I love you
because
you have known
false love &
the Colossus of
false piety &
you know that I worship
you,

above all the pagan gods.

You who know how to dance
& do so very bravely
(smashingly even)
come out of your hovels
& little Zen cabins,
drink wine with the bums
& learn how to live
like a dharma lunatic
in the here & in the now
with clothes & perceptions
cast off into the
darkness of the stillness
of the brain

Desperation is the language
Of men in gray suits and women in
Gray dresses who count digital money
As if it mattered;
The language of the men with the
Combovers and the women with the
Horn-rimmed glasses with shining
Clear fingernails constantly
Glancing at the expensive watch
On their thin wrists that pulse
With fast food, caffeine,
And a million multicolored pills.
There is a computer in his back pocket
And he has never heard the angels.
Her purse is made of leather
And she has never ridden on a horse
Or even been on a farm
Encased in the stench of manure
And hay as opposed to the familiar wonderful
Fragrance of the gaseous air
That lurks in the alleys and the white
Smell of processed food
In the offices and the campuses.
They will laugh and cry about it all again
In Limbo and hold one another
Like a crucifix at the end of a row
Of pretty rosary beads, at the end
Of a row of pews, at the edge of the feet
Of marble Jesus, who stands and cries tears
As heavy and beautiful as the Brooklyn Bridge
And is powerless to adjust his crown
Of thorns, for his wrists are bleeding
Drops of blood as big and beatific
As the stock exchange.

I once was a cowboy king
and the American desert was
my playground.

My kingdom was my mind
and then it was free
to wander in the grass.

I smoked false cigarettes
made of sugar and chased
invisible horses.

The waves washed over my feet
and they sank into
the wisdom of the sand.

I built for myself a meager
castle with a moat
so I could stand above it.

The fluorescent corridors were
my stomping-grounds
and the servants stared.

No door could hold me
for I bore the royal hall pass
on my belt loop,

right beside my Crayola revolver.

The lonely tree
In the far off field is a
Flower tree--
The flowers are white
And pregnant with
Possibility
Like cold and clean
Sterile snowballs
Washed by the rain
This morning that fell
Gently from the
Milky clouds and woke me
From my slumber
Because they so rudely
Hid the sun from me

The rain outside
(thrice-born like God)
the soft pitter-patter
of watery feet
on the wooden roof
on the asphalt
washing away the paint
of a spent day
and watering the
womb of the Earth
this is the bitterest
season and one for
happiness

When I see you,
I see a choir of doves
As white as the cliffs of Dover;
Your cheeks are the upturned
Bellies of fallen sparrows.

Every part of you sings in time
With the music that gravity makes
Between the spheres.

I am speechless;
It is amazing that you have
Fallen gently beside me,
Graceful, pretty, pretty as
A Basho haiku.



Your eyelashes are the spines
Of tiny fallen hummingbirds;
They cannot flutter anymore—
        Your gravity has stolen
        All of their vitality.

When you move,
All I hear is the sound of
Wings closing and opening
Again.

When you call me near to you
To say that your body is not
Beautiful, I want to
Call near to me the ancient mouths
Of every man and every beast
And every waterfall
To tell you differently.

I want to testify against you;
I want to change your mind;
But I surrender before you
So I can hear your voice
Even if it is wrong.

Sweet Star
silver & shuddering
spinning in the
inky black

Sweet hawk-headed
lord robed & ready
chanting in the
endless night

It is
12:47 P.M.
and I am drunk
as a dog.

The gin tastes
like the forest,
the beer like
the alley.

But I can feel
your pretty gray eyes
right down the street
staring at me,

wondering why I've
done this to myself.
In high school I
seemed so clean,

so pure. I guess I
fooled you, though.

So now you've left me
nothing but quiet bones.

You have pulled out
my unreal teeth.

You have taken off
my unlaughable clothes.

I **** the bitter
night. I **** all its

kisses; they bring
me no joy. You have

trimmed my unabashed
hair, my unyielding

nails.
I am quiet bones.

I threw away the years
that I spent kissing you &
holding you in the gloom
of damp basements &
on leather couches; I had
to do it, because I have
grown immense & cold
like the spaces between the
twinkling stars.

Sweet uncertainty;
Double-edged sword
Of love and hate;
The taste of
Tongues and poison.

There is blood
In the sunrise
And blood
In the ocean;
The waves recede,
Then come back again.

In our youth
We were bold
And the stars bowed
To our heat.

The shadows flicker
Across a dim room,
The pipes cough,
There are locusts
In the dry walls.

Our hearts are big
As God and pulse
In the vanity of summer.

Venom drips from
The trees
Of our ceiling
Canopy;
Catch it in your
Mouth.

I can never love you
like Romeo loved Juliet;
it is against my religion
to ****.

I can never love you
like cats love one another;
the cold indifference
would slay me.

I can never love you
like I loved her;
the passion would set
us both aflame.

I can love you
like a lover loves a lover.

Springing
From the ground
Like flowers
And groping at our
Feet
Hoping to entangle us
And trap is forever

The thorny vines
Poking into
Our ankles and
Sliding up our pant
Legs to bury spikes
Within
Our smooth unsuspecting
Flesh

Drops of blood drawn
Drop like the bold sunset
Leaving pretty stains
On the soft skin
Pulsing and
Bruised

I don't like the way
you criticize
the Smiths, or your
gentleman callers,
or that I will never
be good enough, but I
don't mind the way you
look at me,
or the way butterflies
infest my stomach
and then my throat when
I try to speak to you.

I don't like the way
you skirt around the issue--
you beat around the bush,
but I'd rather
burn it down.

I don't like the way
you live right down
the street, as if we were
put here for a reason,
and I lie awake at
night, thinking of
you, talking to
you, knowing that
you might just be
listening to the same
breeze that I'm listening to.

I don't like the way
you might be using me,
manipulating me,
opening me up and looking
at my bare soul
like a roadmap, and then
you use it as a welcome
mat.

We hear the same trains
at night, we see the same
cars passing
by our houses, the same
leaves fall in our yards.

I've torn my heart out,
opened up my rib cage,
and let the blood
spill out, and now I've given
it to you.

You can do what you
wish with it--

but I would appreciate it
if you would lock it away
and throw away the key,
and please
please
please just don't step
on it.

My head swims with
confusion (so does yours,
but you're so afraid
of your emotions that
you can't bear to see it,
so you say)
and you make me feel
stupid.

So look at me again
and open your lips
again and speak to me,
that's all I need.

I'll try not to think
about you, while you
go off in your confusion,
and try to sort out your
emotions.

Fear is the heart
of love.

In the end,
you will accept the
love that you deserve,
and the only love
is mine.

When they come for me
I'll be sitting in my desk
With a gun in my hand
Wearing a bulletproof vest

cast off that mortal coil
& come with me to the garden
& learn how to be royal
& let your soft soul harden
in the gemlike flame
of compassion
in the diamondlike frame
of Buddha fashion
& throw away your clothes
& bring all of your books

I'd like a bottle
Of blood red wine
Some cigarettes
A decent book
And a lady to ring in
The darkness of a new day

God in the window
God in the door
God in the staircase
God all over the floor;
        We went out tonight,
        Wondering, weeping,
        Dreary down city lanes
        And lonely in the street.
The trees line the sidewalk
The trees are staring at us
God is in the majesty of the trees
God is in the wisdom of the air;
        There is grime in the cracks,
        The cracks of the ***** street,
        And it springs up like April showers
        And it licks the air like May flowers.
The puddles rest at the edge
The puddles are still and shallow
God is in the naivety of the puddles
God is in the exultance of the moonlight;
        We are home now to rest and dine,
        Comfortable in the warmth of the fire,
        At ease with the taste of the house
        And God is in the house.

She is the lady of the harvest--
                 I travel blindly to her garden
                 to smell the flowers and bask
                 in the remnants of what is left
                 of dead October;
                 she shows me how to look
                 into the garbage, into the flowers
                 to see the heroes in the weeds,
                 the ladies in the morning;
                 they lean out towards love,
                 they will lean that way forever
                 and ever.